Choices

Life was full of two types of events: those whose outcome you could chose, and those who you could not.

Davina was born to a subspecies of humans warring with their more ordinary brethren for Earth's control; that wasn't a choice. She'd led that group, in the name of protecting her family. That had been a choice.

Her family had been massacred. That hadn't been a choice.

Tristan James had bumped into her when she joined a space expedition under a false name, trying to forget her demons. That was not a choice. He'd let himself love her, even though he knew she was hiding something. That had been a choice.

When one of her old friends, thought long dead, surfaced and attacked the expedition, she'd had the option of going with him. Her staying had been a choice.

A group of terrorists had offered to give her her long-dead brother back; all she had to do was help them sabotage the expedition ship, killing Tristan and a hundred others. Turning them down had been a choice.

Tristan had had choices, too. He'd chosen to be there for her, every single time she needed him to be. He'd chosen to propose, down on one knee in front of a thousand stars. He'd chosen to throw himself in front of a bullet for her when Malorian pirates boarded their ship.

Davina James, an old woman now, brushed her fingers across the simple engagement ring, smiling Tristan James II and his children.

She knew, as she had so long ago when she first held her son, that if she could go back, never meet him, never love him, never watch him die, she wouldn't.

She would always love him, but she'd accepted what happened, pain and all. That, too, was a choice.